


'til the wheels fall off

by fueledbysquee



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Dating, First Time, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, undernegotiated polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-28
Updated: 2009-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fueledbysquee/pseuds/fueledbysquee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of fucking course Brendon's mysterious Wentz would be the guy Patrick had been stalking at the coffeehouse, until he'd suddenly disappeared two months ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'til the wheels fall off

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an [anon_lovefest](http://anon-lovefest.livejournal.com) prompt
> 
> Also featuring a sudden shift from past to present tense because I posted it as a WIP and forgot what I'd written. Whoops.

Patrick had thought that nothing could possibly be worse than going out to dinner with Brendon and Spencer and their sickening cuteness. He was starting to regret that thought.

It turned out that dinner with Brendon and Spencer and Patrick's no-longer-anonymous crush was about a thousand times worse. Brendon said that he'd invited Pete along so Patrick wouldn't feel like a third wheel. ("It's not a date, man," he'd said. "I wouldn't do that to you," he'd promised, "but it's just he's been out of town forever, and it would be awesome if we could all go out. He's fun. It'll be fun," he'd claimed, the latest line in a long tradition of bullshit that Brendon probably sincerely believed.)

Of fucking course Brendon's mysterious Wentz would be the guy Patrick had been stalking at the coffeehouse, until he'd suddenly disappeared two months ago. Of fucking course it would turn out that what Patrick had thought was a burgeoning friendship was just Pete being polite to the dumpy guy who always showed up to open mic nights. Of fucking course Pete's charged, ambiguous poetry was just another edgy poser saying fuck you to society by changing the gender of his pronouns.

Pete had definitely remembered him, but all he did was shoot an accusing look at Brendon and then ignore Patrick as much as possible for the rest of dinner.

The typical Brendon-and-Spencer torture was that they made googly eyes at each other and tried, poorly, to draw the other half of the table into their conversation.

Patrick still got to suffer through that, with the added bonus that Pete spent the whole evening flirting, desperately, with their waitress. Patrick kept busy by pushing his food around on his plate, and tried not to imagine the flowery proposal that Pete was going to make to their slim, dark-haired waitress or all the gorgeous babies they were going to have as a result of fucking like bunnies.

It had been nice - it'd been amazing, honestly - to have Pete's intensity focused on him for those too-few hours at the coffeehouse. If Patrick hadn't already been busy trying to hate Brendon for having a life that highlighted everything that Patrick was missing, he would have tried hating Brendon for killing off his secret hope, too.

The good news and the worse news was that Pete wasn't hopelessly in love with the waitress at the restaurant.

~~

When Brendon wanted to go out, Brendon wanted to _stay_ out. They got to the club just in time to find a tiny booth, and they managed to order two rounds of drinks like responsible adults before their waitress forgot they existed. Patrick resolved to spend the rest of the night either getting drinks or drinking them so that he wouldn't have to watch the inevitable continuation of the Brendon-and-Spencer show. Of fucking course, Pete shat all over that plan too. He kept Patrick trapped in the booth and ignored all of his efforts to get out. And damned if Patrick was going to remind Pete that he was there by being a brat. He pulled his hat lower over his eyes, and focused as much as he could on the screen of his phone, instead of on Pete's manic laughter and Brendon's progress from talking to cuddling to straddling Spencer's lap less than a foot away from Patrick. Of fucking course.

Pete flirted with every pretty young thing that passed within 30 feet of where he was perched on the edge of the seat, and somehow managed to keep the table in booze. For all that he looked like a talking, jittering pile of laundry from where Patrick was sitting, everyone Pete talked to seemed to be having the time of her life. As it got later and the glasses on the table progressed from mixed drinks to whatever day-glo creation the shot girls were pushing, Patrick just slouched further into the plush seat and prayed to be put out of his misery. Eventually he gave up the pretense of being busy, or bored, or listening to the music that was pulsing loud enough to set the furniture vibrating, and just watched Brendon and Spencer from under the brim of his cap.

It was too cliché to think it was like watching porn, and Patrick had never seen porn where the actors were as lost in each other as Brendon and Spencer were, anyway. They were beautiful, separate and together, and the care they took of each other set them apart from any hundred drunken hookups, at least in Patrick's eyes. Brendon's hands rarely stopped moving, petting and pawing by turns, but Spencer's were firmly set on Brendon's ass, and when Patrick shifted slightly closer, he could see Spencer's thumbs teasing at the base of Brendon's spine.

He'd seen enough of their shameless, epic makeout sessions at parties to fuel more of Patrick's fantasies than he'd ever admit to, but he'd never been this close to them in the past. He couldn't make himself look away, even lost in his misery.

When someone touched his hand - Spencer, he thought, because Brendon's hands were cradling Spencer's face - Patrick suddenly realized what he'd been doing, blatantly ogling two of his best friends while the club glittered darkly around him. He pulled away, discreetly, and then gave up all pretense of politeness and pushed Pete out of his way, saying something about going to the bar. He could count on the crowd to cover his absence for a while, and once he was out of sight, he circled around to the back of the club to get a hold of himself.

Once he pushed through the herd at the edge of the dance floor, it was quieter, heavy curtains muffling the sound enough that Patrick could hear his own thoughts sloshing around his head again. He wove around the people taking a break from the dimly-lit club for the even more dimly-lit hallway and pushed into the bathroom, shutting himself in the end stall and leaning back against the door. All he wanted was a bit of peace, without his frustrations and failures being rubbed in his face. He was beyond being surprised at his shitty luck when the bathroom door banged open a few minutes later and he didn't get that either.

"Pe-ter, Wentzy," Brendon singsonged, "boys don't go to the bathroom together. Do I need to buy you a purse so you can touch up your makeup?"

Pete's response was nothing like the good-natured retort that Patrick had been expecting. "Brendon, you fucker," Pete hissed, and Patrick heard a thunk and a yelp that were probably the result of Pete punching Brendon on the arm. "How could you do this to me?"

"Hey, hey, hey, Pete," Brendon said, uneven and overloud above the mumble of conversation outside. "Pete, Petey, Peter-boy, do what?"

Pete's voice was harsh when he answered, and a startling contrast to the charm he'd been spewing all evening. "If you're going to trap me into fuckin' torture for 6 hours, the least you can do is keep it in your pants, asshole."

"Ooh," Brendon cooed. "Is little Pete lonely? I can fix that," he said, right before the stall wall to Patrick's right rattled from the weight of a body hitting it.

Leave it to Brendon and goddamn Pete to ruin even hiding in the bathroom. Patrick didn't need to hear any more, and escaped back out into the club to go find his way home.

When he went back to the booth to collect his jacket, Spencer was still there alone, defending their seats with sprawled legs and the force of his glare, but when he saw Patrick approaching his face transformed with his grin. He grabbed at Patrick's arm to sit him down as soon as he got close enough.

"You're back!" Spencer cheered, gleeful and perhaps drunker than Patrick had thought. He scooted over until he was pressed up against Patrick's side, and dropped an arm across his shoulders. "I missed you," he said. "Lonely without you."

Patrick turned his head so that he could respond without shouting and start talking his way into leaving, and met Spencer's lips instead, damp and questioning. It wasn't hard to imagine the taste of Brendon left behind.

After too-long seconds lost to surprise, Patrick reeled back. "I'm not your fucking boyfriend," he snapped. "In case you've forgotten what he looks like, he's the skinny little thing with dark hair who's usually attached to your lips," _except when he's attached to Pete_ , he thought, but he was full-up enough on heartache and disappointment of his own without dragging Spencer down with him.

"No," Spencer said slowly. "You're not Brendon. You're Patrick. Our Patrick?" he tried with a smile that was probably meant to be inviting.

"Oh, God, just fuck off," Patrick said. "I'm not anyone's Patrick, and I'm going home." He slid to the edge of the seat and stood up, but Spencer held on and followed him.

"Brendon is a shitty liar," Spencer said, "and a shitty planner. I knew this wouldn't work," he said, shaking his head but not letting go of Patrick's wrist. "He insisted though, and, well, you know." Spencer at least had the grace to look embarrassed about something, even if Patrick didn't know what he was talking about. Patrick took another step back, trying to tug free, but Spencer followed him again. "Don't go," he said, "or, wait, we can go, just don't leave us until we have a chance to explain."

Patrick sighed. "I'm tired, Spence. Worn the fuck out. Whatever it is, it can wait." He jerked his arm free and ducked through the crowd before Spencer could try again.

~~

Patrick was staring at a cup of water heating in the microwave, trying to decide between herbal tea or instant coffee, when someone knocked at the door. And kept knocking. In the 10 seconds that it took him to cross the living room, he queued up a good rant to unload on Brendon about respect and why the fuck did he think Patrick wasn't answering his phone, and then it wasn't Brendon at the door.

"I'm an asshole, but Spencer says its Brendon's fault," Pete said.

"It usually is," Patrick agreed, and didn't make any move to let Pete into the apartment.

"Can we start over?" Pete asked.

Patrick crossed his arms and leaned into the door frame. "At the beginning, or the middle?"

Pete stuck his hand out to shake. "Hi, I'm Pete Wentz, and in the imaginary world where Brendon spends his time, I was supposed to be a catalyst tonight." He smiled hopefully, and held on to the expression for an impressive length of time while Patrick stared at him in confusion. "Look, can I come in? I really don't think you want to have this conversation in the hallway."

"I don't think I want to have this conversation at all," he grumbled, but Pete didn't look discouraged. Guarding against the thought that the night couldn't possibly get any worse, Patrick nodded and stepped back far enough to let Pete in and then shut and locked the door. When he turned back to face the room, Pete was right in front of him.

"I promise I'll explain in a minute," Pete said, "but first, if it's okay," he placed one hand at the base of Patrick's neck, tugging at his hair a little so that Patrick tipped his chin up, and then Pete kissed him, easing their bodies closer though he barely moved his lips. "Now that that's cleared up," he said when he pulled away, though he'd done nothing of the sort as far as Patrick was concerned, "can we talk?"

Patrick just nodded dumbly and let Pete lead him to the couch. They were sitting side by side, far too close, staring at the coffee table. The fact that Pete kept his hands to himself once they sat just highlighted the lack of space between them. The microwave beeped, but Patrick decided to save the excuse of making coffee until he really needed it.

"Spencer wants to fuck you," Pete said, like those weren't the strangest words to leave anyone's mouth in weeks. "Spencer and Brendon want to fuck you, and they asked me to help, because they are fuckin' hopeless, and incapable of having a simple conversation. They try to be subtle and cool, and then they turn it into, well, this," he said, gesturing to encompass the fucked-upness of the evening.

"Spencer..." Patrick said.

"Spencer and Brendon want to fuck you, and I said I would help, because I thought you were just some guy, and I could grease the wheels or whatever, crazy Pete and his lack of inhibitions, and then move on. But I don't want to move on," Pete said. "And I panicked, and I'm sorry, and I'd like to start over." There was an electronic chirp from Pete's pocket. "We'd all like to start over, but mostly me," he said.

"Coffee?" Patrick said.

"They should have asked you," Pete said. "I'm going to fuck this up." He scooted away far enough to turn so he was facing Patrick, and Patrick fought to keep his breathing steady under the scrutiny.

"So that's a no on the coffee?" Patrick asked without looking over. "Because I'm not sure I'm sober enough for this conversation yet."

"I just, fuck, I didn't think you did guys," Pete said, undeterred. "And then, when it turned out to be you, tonight, I thought you just didn't do _me_. And I was childish, and I ignored you, and I am so, so fucking sorry." Pete's pocket chirped again. "And Brendon and Spencer are downstairs at the mailboxes, and they would really like to come up, and Spencer is going to keep texting me until I answer them." Pete ran a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh, and then rested it on Patrick's shoulder. "I know you don't really know me, but you know Spencer and you know Brendon, and I can just leave..."

"Definitely coffee. Real coffee," Patrick said, and escaped to the kitchen to brew a pot or ten. He heard a few more chirps from Pete's phone in the lull between running water and the coffeemaker burbling, and he didn't say anything when he heard Pete walking around the living room, or when he opened the door to let Brendon and Spencer in.

He could hear snippets of their conversation, but not enough to follow it, mostly the rising volume of Brendon's voice, and then either Spencer or Pete saying no. Patrick just continued to watch the coffee dripping, resolved to wait for the last drop before making a cup and going back into the other room. Eventually, he heard the soft squeak of sneakers on the linoleum floor and then felt the warmth of Spencer standing behind him a moment before he spoke. "I'm sorry," Spencer said. "I was so sure you would... but it was stupid. I should have been the one to explain."

Patrick tightened his grip on the edge of the counter and closed his eyes. "I can't say that anyone has actually explained yet. The job's all yours."

Spencer took a step closer and slipped his arms around Patrick's waist, hugging him tight despite the tension in Patrick's body. "Okay," he said. "Is this okay?"

Patrick nodded and hummed a yes, and waited to see what Spencer would offer.

"I met Brendon first, you know," Spencer said. "He's everywhere, and he's...bright. He attracts attention, and he's got so much love. He doesn't limit himself to one thing, or one person, but he had to learn to focus, to fit in so he wouldn't cause trouble, and he focused on me." Spencer's grip tightened for a minute and then loosened, and he set his palms flat against Patrick's stomach. "And being with Brendon helped me see how 'more' or 'different' wasn't the same as 'not good enough' but it took a long time for him to be comfortable talking about it with me. He's still not good at talking about it," Spencer said with a breath of rueful laughter. "I'm not either, I guess."

When Spencer's words stopped, Patrick took a minute to appreciate the comfort in Spencer's arms, and the tease of breath against his temple, and leaned back a bit. "And Pete?"

Spencer made a considering noise. "Brendon and Pete have always...y'know, fooled around or whatever. He travels, but when he's here," Spencer said, carefully, "I don't think he's comfortable with us, always. Pete talks a lot about relationship dynamics and power imbalances, and I don't think Brendon really understands. There are a lot of places in Pete's head that Brendon can't follow, and I wouldn't even know where to start looking. He's always available, but I think Pete needs someone to be his all the time. He's got a girlfriend, usually," Spencer said, and Patrick felt his shrug.

"And where do I fit in?" Patrick asked.

Spencer said, "We want you," and it set a shiver off in Patrick though there was nothing lustful in Spencer's tone. "We want you to be ours. You're smart, and warm, and generous, and you're not afraid to be an asshole if we push too far. I think Brendon would live inside your music if he could figure out how. I don't want to speak for Pete, but he really likes you. I can see that now, and I'm sorry I didn't realize as soon as you showed up tonight.

"You're lonely," Spencer said. Patrick bit down on his automatic denial. "We made you lonely, and I'm sorry." He turned his head and pressed a kiss against the tip of Patrick's ear. "And I want to fix it. We don't even have to- whatever you want is fine, but please, come be with us and give us a chance."

~~

It's nice, being held by Spencer. Patrick doesn't touch people, usually, and they don't often touch him. Brendon can't ever keep his hands to himself, of course, but Spencer respects people's boundaries, and Spencer's arms around him feel special, and real in a way that his words hadn't. Patrick sighs, and takes his hands off the counter, crosses his arms and lets himself lean a little. When Spencer drops his head down for another light kiss at Patrick's temple, holds him a little tighter, Patrick tries to find the part of his brain that says _no_ , that has Spencer marked as Brendon's and vice versa, but it's lost in the haze of the moment, and Patrick lets himself imagine never having to listen to it again. When Spencer moves his hands to Patrick's shoulders, fingers stroking with the same patience, if not the confidence, that he's seen in touching Brendon so many times, Patrick lets a little more of his tightly-bottled need leak out.

Patrick turns around and leans back against the counter. He looks. He looks up, which he's not usually close enough to Spencer to need to do, and when Spencer looks down to meet Patrick's eyes, some of his hair falls forward and gets in the way. Patrick isn't standing anywhere near straight up, and Spencer dominates his field of view; it's too easy to image that view from flat on his back. When Patrick shuts his eyes, he can picture what it might be like to be surrounded by them all, or surround them in turn.

Spencer's thumbs are still stroking Patrick's shoulders. "Please," Spencer says again, and Patrick wonders how much of what's running through his brain is playing out on his face. Spencer starts to lean in for a kiss, and Patrick stops him with a hand on his chest.

"I don't think my bed has room for four people," Patrick says. Spencer's hands still, and his expression goes flat before Patrick realizes which part of his internal monologue has made it past his lips. Spencer starts to move away, and Patrick rushes to grab on and and stop him. "No, wait, that's not a, a... fuck. whatever. I literally don't think we'll all fit," he says with an uncertain smile. "I don't want to start anything that we're not equipped to finish."

"I think you'll find that we're very adaptable," Spencer says, but his tone is still cautious rather than happy.

"And I want to talk to Pete again, before."

Spencer nods. "Anything you want, always. I meant that. Now?"

When they walk back out into the living room, Pete and Brendon are curled up around each other on the couch. Pete has his head tilted to the side like he's trying to read the titles on the bookshelf from 15 feet away, and he's petting Brendon's hair. Pete looks up and grins at them both. "He's passed the fuck out. He was really worried."

"And really drunk," Spencer adds.

" 'm not," Brendon mumbles, and he picks his head up to prove his point, but when he sits up it takes a minute before where he is and what's going on registers on his face. When it does, Brendon looks to Spencer first, the way he always does when he makes a joke or asks a question. It makes that ache in Patrick's chest threaten to come back, until Brendon looks at him, and whatever answer he found in Spencer's eyes has put something completely new in Brendon's, a spark and a giddiness that's completely intoxicating. "Really?" Patrick is starting to appreciate what Spencer meant when he talked about Brendon's focus.

He can see Pete starting to shift on the couch like he's looking to make his escape, and Spencer seems to notice as soon as Patrick does, and he moves to draw Brendon's attention. "Yeah, really, but no thanks to your 'let's get drunk and screw' master plan, doofus."

Brendon looks embarrassed, but he still squawks his disapproval at Spencer, and it's easy for Spencer to engage him and draw him away. "C'mon, drunky, let's get some water in you," he says, and pulls a still-wobbly Brendon into the kitchen.

Patrick sits on the couch, and he's nervous, but the flutter in his stomach now is nothing like his confusion when he and Pete first sat there.

"All better?" Pete asks. He's hiding behind his hair, and it sounds like he's already halfway out the door and not happy about it. When Patrick takes his hand, he startles, and he can see Pete thinking.

"They're... I want this," Patrick says. "I want you, and I want you to be a part of it, but Spencer-"

"I don't think I can let you go, if I stay," Pete says. "Not without trying to make you hate me. I'm not sure I could stay away from any of you otherwise. It's hard enough to leave them already."

"I- I don't think you have to. To leave. Can we try?"

Patrick looks up at a noise from the doorway, and Spencer's watching them, his arm around Brendon's shoulders. "It's late," he says. "Come to bed?"

"I don't think you get to invite me into my own bedroom," Patrick says, but he still gets up off the couch. He holds on to Pete's hand and tugs him up, too.

Patrick's bed really isn't big enough for four people, but they push it over into the corner and make Brendon sleep on the edge. He whines, but Spencer assures them that it would take a catastrophic earthquake to shake Brendon loose once he's latched on to the person sleeping next to him. They strip down to boxers, and a t-shirt for Patrick, and leave their clothes and shoes in one pile on the floor. He really was tired before he left the club, and that goes a long way to quieting the questions in his head when he's spooned between Spencer and Pete. As he drifts into sleep, Brendon wonders aloud whether it's possible to have a G-rated orgy, but there's no answer. He thinks Spencer and Pete probably share a look over his head, and it's a nice thought to dream about the little things.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they wake up together Saturday morning, sleep-warmed and tangled together, with no inclination to go their separate ways, and have the best sex of Patrick's life. By the time someone makes it to the kitchen, it takes 10 minutes to scrub the sludge out of last night's forgotten coffee-pot.


End file.
